


Darkly

by CateAdams



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Pon Farr, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2074797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateAdams/pseuds/CateAdams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU) The Federation is gone, swept from existence in the wake of an alien invasion from outside the known galaxy. The Enterprise was one of the last standing, but now her crew is gone; dead, or spread across the galaxy, sold into slavery, or sent into harsh imprisonment. Jim Kirk’s spirit is all but broken when a ghost from his past returns to his life. In the wreckage of all he ever knew, with his very identity gone and his memories shattered, can the former captain find a way to rise from the ashes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost And Found

(posted on ksarchive.com beginning 16 April 2014)

 

 

Chapter One: Lost and Found

 

 

     Earth was gone. Maybe not as conclusively as the implosion of Vulcan over four years before, but perhaps more starkly. For whereas Vulcan had disappeared, the gray, scorched surface of the formerly blue world was a constant reminder of the billons lost. The spectacle of a world defeated was mirrored in other places across the galaxy: on Romulus, on _Qo’noS_. Where there had once been superpowers, now there was only devastation.

     The great starfleets of the former worlds had been conquered almost as easily as their planets. Only a few ships remained for the final battle: former enemies united at last in a final, desperate attempt to stem the powerful tide of alien invasion. Of those ships, the last to fall had been the _Enterprise_ , now floating as a dead hulk in a debris field among the stars, a monument to warn of the price of defiance.

     The remaining leaders of the fleets had been captured, paraded in front of silent crowds, and then sent into obscurity. Labor camps, slavery, prisons at the edge of nowhere; places where any remaining vestige of hope or defiance would be snuffed out in painful solitude: unheard, unwept, unchampioned. The _Srill-ar_ were nothing if not thorough.

     At the edges of one of the smaller labor camps, at the boundary of what had been explored space, on a small planet of which he himself had conducted an initial survey almost two-and-a-half years ago, the former Captain Jim Kirk wiped the sweat from his brow and pushed again at a heavy wooden cart full of rock. He had grown thin and wiry in the two years he had been in captivity, his skin a dark tan from near-constant exposure to the sun. His hair had grown out, and his face covered with a scraggly beard. His eyes, once full of life and daring, now were hard and relentless.

     His capture had been the final jewel in the crowning of a new dominant species in this part of the galaxy. The _Srill-ar_ had wanted him to remain alive, but suffering, in obvious thrall to his new masters. In that, they had mostly succeeded. But as time passed, and the necessity for examples among the cowed races of the galaxy dwindled, the former captain had been mostly forgotten. He was still a leader; even the harshness of the prison camp couldn’t take that away from him. He used his wits and, more often, his body, buying the guards’ favor and their silence. He protected others where possible, distributed rations to those too sick to fend for themselves, passed judgment on petty disputes among prisoners. And at night, he had his own bunk, against the wall near the single window, where he could, if the angle was right, just barely see beyond the metal bars to the stars in the sky.

     Jim didn’t believe in bitterness or regret. The wounds in his heart and soul went far too deep for that. Watching his planet fall was almost as painful as watching his crew die, or be dragged off to suffer. Almost as painful as the betrayal of his first officer, once his best friend, who had willfully surrendered his ship and his captain, delivering them into the arms of the enemy. Spock’s traitorous act had sealed Jim’s fate; the former captain’s last memory of that other life was the sight of the Vulcan walking away from him toward the enemy as Jim had been taken away to be tortured. That moment had felt like death, and in some respects, it was. After that he had been pushed onto a filthy transport with a hundred other souls, sent here to waste away.

     It was nearing quitting time, and the shrill screams of the night birds echoed in the air. Jim gave one last effort to pushing the cart, and, with a creaking groan, it jolted forward just enough to bump out of the deep rut and continue to roll. He bent forward, feeling his muscles strain, taking a small delight in the pain and exhaustion he felt. It was something, and it meant he was still alive. Once back at the compound, under the watchful gaze of the guards, the prisoners scooped their rations from a long trough and headed back to their communal cells. Jim shuffled, along with the rest of his cellmates, into the cold, concrete structure that barely kept out the wind and dust at night. He sat on his bunk and quickly ate. It had been a difficult day, with three prisoners dying in the quarry. The mood of those remaining, usually dim, was now despairing.

     As darkness fell, a soft hymn was taken up by some of the men. Jim lay back on his bunk, one arm over his eyes. He had not cried in over two years and he would not start now. He knew the ache of defeat, the hurt. Could feel it inside him, burning his soul. Despite his meager status among the prisoners, he knew that he was broken, changed. His only freedoms were his thoughts, and those were difficult bedfellows.

     As he felt his mind start to wander down the paths of difficult memories, he savagely bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. The pain helped him focus, helped him survive; it was all he had left. He forced his breathing into a regular pattern, willing the escape of sleep to take him. To fall into dreams of his past, where he called Spock’s name in the bright corridors of his ship and the familiar voice answered him. Somehow, in his dreams, the icy hatred fell away as if it had never existed, melted in the face of a soul-deep warmth. Jim allowed these dreams, an escape from harsh reality, even with the return of the cold memories that waited for him in the light of dawn. He lived every waking moment with his loathing and did not begrudge himself unconscious respite.

     From outside, he heard the night birds again, the wash of the wind picking up, the far echoes of rock tumbling down deep quarry walls. And something else above the gentle singing, a scratching noise, intermittent, coming from near the door. He froze and sat up, peering into the darkness. His hands clenched into fists; it was not unheard of for the large canine predators of this region to venture into the camp for an easy meal. As the song dropped off, the scratching noise stopped. Jim held motionless, listening. There was nothing. He waited, some hint of instinct telling him not to move, to keep alert.

     The door and the surrounding wall suddenly blew apart with tremendous force, throwing the cell into an abrupt frenzy. Prisoners screamed and fell over each other trying to push out of the way. Through the rubble, a lone dark-clad figure advanced, a mask over his face, and an energy weapon in his hands. He did not spare a glance for any of the other prisoners cowering in the dust and debris, but moved smoothly and purposefully up to Jim. The former captain stood, his stance defiant, with nothing left to lose. The figure stopped, reaching out to him almost hesitatingly with a single gloved hand, and then the sound of alarms blared throughout the compound.

     Jim’s attention was diverted for an instant, but in that instant his arm was grasped with lightning-quick speed, he was spun around, and an iron grip descended on the junction of his shoulder and neck. As blackness fell over his vision, Jim whispered the impossible, “ _Spock..._ ”.

 

 


	2. Shadows of Yesterday

Chapter Two: Shadows Of Yesterday

 

 

     Jim’s awareness returned slowly. He kept his eyes shut, feeling the subtle vibration of a ship at warp and thinking that he’d finally, _finally_ gone insane. He heard something then, at his side: a voice from the past. And he couldn’t help a choked noise; it was too much, it couldn’t be true. He could feel his body shaking, but he still refused to open his eyes, convinced that when he did he would be back in his cell, awakened from another tragic, desperate dream.

     “Jim. My god, man, come on. Please look at me.”

     Jim took a ragged breath, tasting stale re-circulated air. He felt the pull of a slightly lower gravity. He lifted his hand, fingers outstretched, searching. And it was only when he felt a strong, warm hand close over his own that he finally opened his eyes. _Bones..._

     “How? How?” He couldn’t say anything more, suddenly couldn’t breathe. He grasped his friend’s hand, used it as leverage to haul himself up and pull the doctor toward him. They held each other in a strong, desperate embrace, and Jim found he couldn’t let go. “I thought you were dead,” he murmured into the rough fabric of his friend’s shirt. “I thought you all were dead.”

     He could hear the emotion in McCoy’s voice. “Not all of us, kid. I can’t believe we finally found you.”

     “We?” Jim lifted his face and leaned back enough to search his friend's eyes.

     “Yeah. Me and Spock.” The doctor gave him a weary smile as Jim blinked at him. “I know. It’s a long story, Jim, and I’m not sure I’m the one to tell it. But it’s damn good to see you.”

     Jim froze, his mind still caught on the pronouncement of the other’s name. It hadn’t been a figment of his weary mind, then, what he had seen after the wall had fallen. “What the fuck is he doing here?” The former captain’s face had gone white, his voice a low hiss. “Traitorous half-breed bastard surrendered my ship.”

     McCoy’s expression was suddenly equal parts horrified and confused. “Jim, what are you talking about?” Hazel eyes flashed over the younger man’s face. “What do you mean, surrendered your ship?”

     Jim had backed up on the bed so that he was against the cold bulkhead, eyes darting around the room. “You were there! During the final battle, he turned the ship over to them, turned us all over to them!”

     The doctor reached out and gripped both of Jim’s arms, shaking him slightly. “Jim, that never happened. Spock was on the bridge, with you, when the engines were hit. He fought at your side when we were boarded. They shot him while trying to get to you. Don’t you remember?”

     The former captain blinked, feeling a sensation like wind rushing past his ears, his mind a sudden whirl of confusion. A series of images flew across his field of vision: explosions, running, phasers firing, being pushed to the ground as green blood sprayed across the floor. “No.” Jim shook his head, hands pressed now to his temples. “I remember him walking away from me as they took me. He left me.”

     McCoy had released him and his voice was gentle. “He didn’t leave you, Jim. He was sent into slavery, taken at the same time you were, during that publicity stunt those fucking bastards broadcast out to anyone left alive to see it.”

     Suddenly a new image, sharp and undeniable, triggered by his friend’s words, coalesced like truth in his mind: his first officer, injured, drugged, and in chains, pulled forcibly away from his side. Spock’s eyes, huge and expressive, and his mouth, soundlessly calling Jim’s name. Jim pressed his fingers tighter against his head. Two years. Two years he had lived with memories of betrayal that suddenly were wavering, with a certainty of treachery and abandonment that was suddenly faltering. Two years he had lived with the gut-wrenching hatred of a man he had once loved as a brother. A wave of guilt and confusion, anger and disbelief, washed over him. His head was pounding and white lights flashed across his vision. “You can’t be right. This can’t be right. I don’t remember... .” The white flared and from a distance he heard himself scream. There was a sharp sensation of cold against his neck and a hissing noise, and he collapsed gratefully into silent, still darkness.

 

 


	3. Sheol

Chapter Three: Sheol

 

 

     Jim awoke again, his head aching and his mouth dry. He sensed the presence of his friend next to him and turned his head to meet the doctor’s worried gaze.

     “How are you feeling, kid? Any better?”

     Jim swallowed and shifted on the bed. “I don’t know.” He studied McCoy’s face. “I don’t know what to feel.” His eyes narrowed. “Where is he?”

     McCoy hesitated before tilting his head at the door. “Driving the ship. We had to haul ass after picking you up. The _Srill-ar_ won’t come after us themselves, but they’ll send a heap of mercenary trouble our way. He’ll be down when he can.”

     Jim slowly pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot and finally taking a look around. They were in a tiny cabin, the unadorned walls a dingy metallic gray. A door to Jim’s left was the only exit, and a small washstand and toilet stood behind a partition to his right. The doctor was seated on a stool, and Jim noticed he held a pile of clothing on his lap. “Are those for me?” he asked tentatively, looking up at McCoy.

     “You bet.” The doctor handed him the bundle and stood up. “Go ahead and get washed up and changed. I’ll be back with some food in a couple minutes.”

     “Wait,” Jim held up a hand, the doctor’s words from earlier just registering. “Why did you say the _Srill-ar_ wouldn’t come after you themselves?”

     The doctor’s face hardened, and the deep lines of tension and grief that had been etched over the past two years seemed even more prominent. “He can kill them, Jim.”

     Jim’s mouth fell open. “Who, Spock? That’s impossible, Bones. They can’t be killed. That was the whole fucking problem.”

     “There were a lot of fucking problems.” The doctor frowned. “But he can, and they know it.”

     “How?” The young human stared at his friend. “What really happened, Bones?” He felt his lip tremble and bit it savagely. “I can’t trust myself. What happened to you? To him?”

     There was sudden pain in the doctor’s eyes, and he quickly averted them. “That’s a long story, Jim.”

     Before, the captain would have pressed his friend, would have wrung a report out one way or another. Now, he knew only too well the horrors that each of them held, and no more wanted to drag out another’s pain than reveal his own. The tension was broken by the dull clink of the door, and Jim’s eyes moved to see a tall, lean figure standing in the doorway.

     The shiny, black hair was the same, but pushed to the side across his forehead after a more human fashion. The pale skin, pointed ears, large brown eyes: all as Jim remembered. But his build was different, the way he carried himself. He was still slender, but Jim could see the cut of muscle beneath the thin, black shirt he wore. A long, white scar ran down one side of his neck from behind his ear to his collar. He looked dangerous, and his dark eyes were focused on Jim in a way the former captain had never seen before. There was naked longing there; a question in need of an answer. Jim stood up, facing his former first officer. The one who, so long ago it seemed, called him friend. The one who may have saved him, may have betrayed him, may have loved him, may have turned him over to the devil himself.

     Jim felt a rush of conflicting emotions, staring at the Vulcan who had simultaneously haunted his days and soothed his dreams, and couldn’t help the pulse of sick hatred and sharp anger that existed as a habit over two years of unyielding pain. The wavering memories were still there: faded in the face of what had newly surfaced in McCoy’s presence, but still powerful. Dimly, Jim became aware of a strange muted hum in the back of his mind and he instinctively recoiled, backing up along the edge of the bed, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

     McCoy’s attention was focused on Spock, and, as an unsteady step forward turned suddenly into a collapse, the doctor rushed to catch the Vulcan’s form, holding him in a near-embrace, muttering indecipherable words into his ear.

     “I’ll be right back, Jim, just stay here.” McCoy’s order refused to be disobeyed, and Jim dumbly sat back down on the cot as the doctor supported Spock through the door and out of his sight, the Vulcan’s intense gaze locked on his former captain until the last possible second. Down the corridor, Jim heard a strangled cry and the sound of an impact, like something hitting the bulkhead, and then only silence. When minutes passed and the doctor had not yet returned, Jim moved over to the washstand, splashing water on his face and avoiding his reflection in the small mirror, feeling the chaotic emotions from before settle slightly in Spock’s absence, the mental hum gone. Jim took off his torn and filthy shirt and pants and scrubbed as best he could with a washcloth before moving back over to the cot and pulling on the clothes McCoy had left. A white pullover shirt and lightweight pants were simple, but clean, and they fit him well enough. He sat back and waited.

     After almost a half-hour the doctor came in alone, a worried expression on his face. He looked Jim up and down and managed a half-smile. “Well, that’s a bit better. I’ll get you a razor after you eat something. C’mon and I’ll introduce you to our crappy replicator.”

     Jim tensely followed him out of the small cabin and into a narrow hallway, not wanting to ask where the Vulcan had gone or what had been wrong with him. Two turns, and they entered another room with a table in the center and cabinets along one wall. A bulky replicator was hooked up in the corner. Jim held back as McCoy ordered for them both, and sat down uncertainly across the table from the doctor. In two years he had not had a hot meal or coffee, and the prospect of both was almost like a mirage. He was afraid to touch, lest the meal vanish from under his fingers. McCoy sipped his own coffee slowly, watching his friend almost warily.

     Jim took a small sip of his soup, and sighed, the warmth and flavor like gifts. The silence lingered and thickened, and Jim finally, reluctantly, met the doctor’s gaze and quietly asked, “What’s wrong with him, Bones?”

     The doctor’s lips tightened. “His shields are weak. Since, well, _since_. His telepathy is more sensitive and it’s harder for him to shield. Going in to rescue you took its toll.”

     Jim took another sip of soup, hoping his stomach wouldn’t react too sharply to the influx of decent food, and tried to appear nonchalant. “It seemed like it got worse around me.”

     The doctor considered him closely and grunted, pushing his own soup around with his spoon, saying carefully, “He’s more receptive to you.”

     Jim swallowed and sat back, feeling almost full after just a few spoonfuls. “Why’s that?” He remembered a feeling of warmth, of deep friendship, of the realization that he’d found a fundamentally kindred spirit. Then they had received the planetary distress call from Earth, from there leading to that fateful final battle. And then Jim’s certainty faded, two sets of shattered memories competing in his mind. Friend or betrayer? Love or hatred? With each there was pain, and Jim found himself forcing himself to eschew both. Once, Spock had spoken of choosing not to feel. Now, Jim willed himself to do the same.

     Bones looked at the table, the stress back on his face. “I don’t know, Jim. Because he is.” He hesitated, refusing to meet Jim’s eyes. “It’s how we found you. Or rather, he found you.” A shadow passed over the doctor’s face and he looked up at the door to the small mess. “I should check on him.”

     Jim’s previous reluctance of delving too deep was giving way to curiosity. “Bones,” he tried again, “what happened to him? To you?”

     McCoy finally met his gaze, and pain was rampant in his hazel eyes. “Jim, I don’t know if I can tell you everything, and what I can tell you is pretty fucked up.” He shifted in his seat, turning the coffee mug around in a circle. “We were all separated after they took the ship; most were killed. They took Spock as a slave. I know you don’t really remember, but it’s the last time he saw you.” The doctor looked visibly agitated, his fingers now drumming a rhythm on the hard tabletop.

     Jim watched him carefully, failing to keep the sarcastic disbelief out of his voice. “Why would they want him for a slave?” The _Srill-ar_ were wraiths, mostly formless, manipulating energy fields. Their need for slaves, aside from repairing equipment and feeding and caring for the legions of morally bankrupt mercenaries that did their day-to-day dirty work, was unclear.

     Bones looked at him and shook his head slightly. “The _Srill-ar_ are telepaths, of a sort; they can mess with brain waves in a way that can be interpreted to be similar to our more conventional understanding of telepathy. But, they don’t seem to be able to generate their own emotions. They can feel them, though; in fact, emotion is kind of like a drug to them. A drug that is most potently delivered by another telepathic mind.”

     Jim’s eyes narrowed. “They made him feel for them? A Vulcan?”

     “Yeah. They drugged him to suppress any natural mental defenses and hooked him up to a collar-like device that stimulated his brain, causing him to feel what they wanted, as much as they wanted. They never touched him, but they would cluster around like fucking ghost vultures feeding on his anger, fear, lust, hate. They would stimulate him into orgasm, or violent rage, or devastating sadness, or simple mindless terror. And they would suck it all up and then come back for more.”

     The doctor tipped his mug, staring into it darkly. “They brought me along for one purpose: to keep him alive. Apparently Vulcans are the best for what they wanted. They’re naturally telepathic, and they feel strongly, even if they are able to control it. But they’re rare, after Nero. And strong telepaths like Spock even rarer. Also, they tend to die quickly, because of the traumatic emotional stresses. So, I got the dubious honor of administering the drug, and keeping his heart beating, despite the mental torture.”

     He pressed his lips together, blinking rapidly. “I broke every oath I ever made, Jim. But some selfish part of me wanted him to survive, and wanted to live myself. So I watched that man cry and scream and finally _beg_ me to make it stop, and I brought him back every time.”

     Jim had crossed his arms over his chest, defensively. “How did you escape?” His voice was flat.

     McCoy raised defeated eyes to meet his former captain’s. “Turns out all that violent emotional stimulation worked to stimulate other things as well. Ever hear of the Vulcan mating cycle?” When Jim shook his head minutely, the doctor continued, “Yeah, at certain points in their life they either need to find a mate or die, apparently. It’s why they bond as children, so that there’s someone for them. Well, Spock fell into the cycle early as a result of the stress.”

     His gaze grew suddenly predatory. “Of course, the fever and enhanced metabolism that went with it had the convenient side-effect of burning through that fucking drug almost as soon as it was administered. So, the next time the _Srill-ar_ bastards decided to use him, they were suddenly dealing with a cognizant, powerful telepath who had extended exposure to their mental energy pathways and a damn good reason for revenge. He killed them, Jim. Probably close to thirty of them: all clustered together waiting for their fix. He mentally zapped them, and then for some reason came back for me, and we got the fuck out of there.”

     The doctor leaned back in his seat, gesturing to the walls. “We stole a ship, and got to warp before any that were left knew what to do with themselves. Of course, the fun wasn’t over. We parked behind a moon somewhere and I watched him almost die again from the fever. He was delirious, shouting in Vulcan. It was horrible.” McCoy finally crossed his arms, too, searching Jim’s face. “He barely survived. But when he’d come back to himself, his first and only thought was getting to you. We had precious little to go on, and were being hunted, but he found you.”

     Jim couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t want to think at all, at the moment. He chose not to feel. The doctor stood, moving towards the door. “I should check on him.”

     “Bones,” Jim murmured absently, stopping the doctor halfway to the door. “What’s this ship we’re on?”

     McCoy’s face took on a dark look. “I call it _Sheol_ , after the place of the dead, both good and evil. Because we all should be dead, and we’re all in it together.” He turned and walked out.

 

 


	4. Through The Silence, You Called To Me

Chapter Four: Through The Silence, You Called To Me

_He was walking down the long, brilliantly-lit corridors of his ship, in his uniform, his mind unburdened and his steps quick. Ahead of him, he saw a familiar form in blue and black, and he walked faster still, a smile on his lips and warmth in his heart. “Spock!” His friend turned to face him, and Jim reached out his hand... ._

 

 

     The dull pressure of the present fell heavily around him and Jim opened his eyes to the feeling of being watched. After the doctor had left, he had tried to keep eating, but a growing ache in his stomach compelled him to stop and return to his tiny cabin. He had been sick; his system not prepared to handle even a small amount of decent food. He had forced himself to drink some water and then passed out on the cot. Now, he woke again, disoriented in the darkness of the room, sensing eyes on him. He sat up, feeling a wave of dizziness and nausea pass over him, and focused his gaze on a figure standing just inside the door. “Spock? Is that you?”

     “Yes, Jim,” His voice hadn’t changed; still that quiet monotone. Jim fumbled at the wall panel next to the cot, finding the light switch almost by accident and causing the cabin to brighten suddenly, a wave of adrenaline washing through his system.

     Spock blinked rapidly in the sharp light and Jim swung his legs over the side of the cot, feeling the cold of the deck beneath his bare feet, flipping the thin blankets away. He was tensed to spring, his entire body taut, and then he took a good look at his former first officer. Spock’s shoulders were drawn in, with his arms folded tightly in front of him. His expression was blank, but his eyes held a deep pain.

     They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then the Vulcan spoke, his voice even quieter than before. “You hold strong feelings of anger towards me. Hatred. I do not understand.”

     “Don’t you?” Jim drew back almost involuntarily. The memories still warred within him, hovering over an emotional well that he did not want to approach. His voice was cold. “Did you betray me?”

     The Vulcan visibly flinched. “Leonard informed me that your memory was not intact. That you do not remember what we are to each other.”

     The muscle in Jim’s jaw twitched. “Not so much, I guess. I thought I knew, beyond a doubt, what had happened. And then I saw Bones and things seemed...less than certain. I remember we were friends, and then... .” He let out a gruff noise. “Either you gave away the ship, or you were there to the end.” He canted his head to the side, peering at Spock out of the corners of his eyes. “I guess Bones seems pretty sure of himself, though. And of you.”

     The brown eyes now held a broken look, and Spock’s body curled in on itself almost imperceptibly. “I did not betray you.”

     There was a sudden intensity between them that Jim couldn’t face, and so he looked away, studying the door, the deck, finally looking at his hands. “I wish I could be so sure. Of anything.”

     Spock’s gaze hadn’t wavered. “Through the silence and the distance between us, you called out to me, Jim. You call to me even now, although I cannot reach you.”

     Startled, Jim glanced back at him, remembering the dream that still whispered through his mind; remembered the similar dreams from his years in captivity. Spock’s body was drawn tight as a cord, almost trembling, and behind the brokenness was something else, something desperate and searching. The former captain’s brow furrowed and he became aware of that confusing hum in his head again. It swirled and pulsed, held back as if behind a barrier, making his nausea worse. Jim had the fleeting thought that perhaps the Vulcan wasn’t completely sane. His next thought was not so generous, and his eyes narrowed, his voice tinged with sudden anger. “Are you messing with my head?”

     Spock’s eyes widened, and Jim pushed himself up to stand on shaky legs, fighting the mounting dizziness. “Goddammit, Spock, you’re not...are you fucking with my mind? With my memory?”

     Spock’s face had gone white and the mental hum abruptly ceased. “No, Jim, I would not do that. This is...my shields... .” His voice uncharacteristically faltered. “I apologize for my lapse in control.”

     Jim was breathing heavily, his hand reaching for the bulkhead to steady himself. He searched the other’s face, now seeing the open distress there. In spite of everything, he found himself wanting to trust. Jim viciously pushed the feeling away, and his voice was calmer, but flat. “Yeah, Bones told me what the _Srill-ar_ did to you.”

     Now, the Vulcan’s gaze moved to focus somewhere over Jim’s shoulder, and he bit his lower lip. “That is not the only reason.”

     Jim frowned. “You mean the fever?”

     Spock blinked. “No.” His voice was halting. “I apologize for disturbing you, Jim.” Turning, he walked away before Jim could say another word and the former captain was left feeling strangely empty and extremely confused. He sat on the bunk, chewing the inside of his cheek, and glanced up anxiously at the door, cursing himself for his uncharacteristic timidity. Gathering himself, he stood and walked slowly to the door, watching it swing open with a dull metallic sound. He looked both ways down the narrow corridor, and stepped out, following his gut.

     It was a short walk, but Jim’s intuition led him straight to the tiny bridge. A simple layout: three main consoles in front of a small viewscreen. They were in warp, judging by the star trails sweeping across the screen. Jim tentatively ran his hand over one of the consoles, peering at the readouts. He turned quickly at the sound of footfalls behind him, his head spinning at the sudden movement.

     “Well, I guess you found the bridge, finally,” drawled the doctor, leaning against the wall just inside the room.

     Jim swallowed, steadying himself, looking back hungrily at the screen. “Yeah.” He glanced down again at the panels. “Where are we headed, Bones? I don’t recognize these coordinates.”

     “We’re headed as far and as fast away from that prison as possible. We’ll keep our heads down for a while, and then see about finding some supplies.”

     Jim stepped away from the console and looked at his friend closely. “Spock was in my cabin just now when I woke up.”

     The doctor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’d he say?”

     “Not much. I could feel him in my head; it seemed like something was wrong with him.” The doctor remained silent, and Jim took a step forward. “He said he heard me calling him.” The former captain’s voice lowered dangerously. “What aren’t you telling me, Bones?”

     McCoy straightened, his face set into grim lines. “There’s nothing else you need to know.”

     “What the fuck does that mean?” Jim’s irritation swelled at the deliberate reticence of his friend.

     Bones folded his arms defiantly across his chest. “Jim, I’m not going to tell you anything else right now; you’re barely dealing with the situation as it stands. Take this business about Spock being a traitor. Spock, for god’s sake! Either you’ve suffered a complete mental breakdown, or your mind’s been tampered with somehow. You’ve got to stand down and take it easy for a while; let your brain catch up to the fact that you’re not in a fucking prison camp anymore!” He made a face, casting a threatening look towards the door. “And I told your m... _Spock_ that he shouldn’t push you, either; that you need time. That it’ll come back, eventually. I guess he couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

     Jim stared, feeling his entire body suddenly shaking with exhaustion, emotion, and lack of nourishment. “What’ll come back? What else can’t I remember?”

     McCoy simply looked at him, and Jim recognized pity in the doctor’s eyes. Irritation flared into helpless anger and he stumbled slightly, his vision wavering. “You’re fucking crazy, the both of you.” He held out his hands, trying to grasp onto something, anything, and then felt himself fall into blissful unconsciousness.

 

 

 

     The fourth time Jim awoke to the drab walls of his small cabin he groaned and swore, throwing his arm over his eyes to block the light, his head a pounding mess and his feelings of helpless fury unabated. He sensed the presence next to him at the same time as the soft hum against his mind and he shifted on the bed, pulling his hand sharply away, blinking up at brown eyes and seeing shades of sadness and confusion in their depths.

     Spock began to speak with no preamble, his eyes moving to regard his own hand, still partly outstretched as he had reached for Jim’s. “After we fled the _Srill-ar_ vessel, I fell into the _plak tow_ , the blood fever. I would have died, except that another ship happened upon us. I do not know what Leonard told them, but one of the people onboard offered herself to ease the fever. When it was over, we followed the vessel to their original destination, a colony of refugees. We remained there for almost a standard month, until our ship could be made ready for departure. I would not be dissuaded from finding you, despite the strenuous objections of the others.”

     Jim rubbed his temples, still leaning away. “And this is where we’re headed? This colony?”

     “Yes, eventually.” Spock dropped his hand to his lap and tilted his head slightly, searching Jim’s eyes. “Leonard mentioned that your altered memory may be due to mental conditioning.”

     Jim’s eyes hardened and he pushed himself up, shifting even farther from his former first officer. He shook his head. “Bullshit. The only thing I was conditioned to do was survive.” He glanced over at Spock, wanting to change the subject. “Mating cycle, huh? So, what, you’ve got a wife?”

     The Vulcan looked away, some deep emotion pulsing through. “No. A mental link was...not possible, given the circumstances. Our arrangement was purely physical, in order to combat the worst of the symptoms.”

     Jim nodded absently. “Yeah, I know all about that.” He sensed confusion in the way Spock’s eyebrow lifted and Jim grunted. “The guards in the camp and I had a, you could say, _physical arrangement_ , too. I got the best rations, and they got to fuck me. Worked out for everyone.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, and Jim could suddenly feel a hot rage superpose the hum in his mind, matched by a feral intensity in the Vulcan’s expressive eyes. Shocked, and frightened, Jim pushed himself fully back against the wall. “What the fuck?”

     Spock blinked, and Jim felt something closing in his mind, sealing off the hum and the rage. The Vulcan’s expression was now placid, his eyes guarded, but Jim was wary. “You’re still suffering from it, aren’t you? From the fever? Because you don’t have a link?”

     The Vulcan suddenly stood. “My life is not in danger, at present.” Without another word, he spun and walked out of the cabin.

     Jim swallowed, looking after him, his mind feeling empty again. Somewhere on the edges of his consciousness, Jim felt the old, familiar emotions of anger and mistrust simmering, stoked by the fear invoked by Spock’s peculiar reaction. And, deeper still, he sensed even older, gentler feelings that refused to be completely buried. He recognized that Spock made him feel vulnerable either way.

     Laying back, flat on the bunk, he covered his eyes with his hands, thinking about what McCoy had implied: mental conditioning, tampering, brain-washing? He supposed it could have happened; he couldn’t remember most of the torture except for the intensity of the pain. He felt his breathing quicken, felt the edges of panic. If they could have convinced him that his best friend was a traitor, if they could have implanted such vivid images into his brain, instilled such stark feelings of lingering hatred, what else could they have done? And why would they pick that particular falsehood? Why that particular betrayal? He shook his head, pressing his hands even harder against his face and turned on his side, towards the bulkhead, hating himself for the longing he felt for that strange hint of a connection with Spock that kept his mind from its numbing, empty turmoil.

 

 


	5. Fighting Is Living

Chapter Five: Fighting Is Living

 

 

     Three days of monotonous travel followed Jim’s conversation with Spock. The former captain spent most of his time on the small bridge, staring out at the sliding colors of warp space, or in his cabin, sleeping fitfully. He forced as much food into his stomach as he could, and tried his best to avoid his shipmates, his thoughts ever troubled. Spock accommodated him, remaining sequestered in his own quarters most of the time and going to the bridge only after Jim had vacated it. Occasionally, Bones came to the bridge as well, sitting at one of the consoles silently, and Jim could feel the doctor’s hazel eyes constantly on him.

     The strange hum in Jim’s mind had ceased for the most part, with one exception. The day after he had last spoken to Spock, he was awakened by the sound of raised voices coming from outside his door, followed by a loud bang, which echoed along the small craft’s bulkheads. Curious, he had stepped outside into the corridor, finding no one, but noticing a deep indentation in the wall, as if it had been punched with inhuman strength. As he stood there, he could feel something roiling in the back of his mind: someone else’s emotions, blurred as they crashed against the edges of his thoughts. They were intense and overwhelming, and gone almost as soon as they appeared.

     On the fourth day, Jim exited his small cabin to the sound of the engines decelerating, and heard the low groan of the craft’s infrastructure accompanying the shift out of warp space. He hurried towards the bridge, where Spock sat at the controls, an unfamiliar icy planetoid looming on the viewscreen. Jim warily stepped behind the Vulcan, his eyes passing over the panels in front of him. “Where are we?”

     “Regulus X.” Spock’s voice was uninflected, and he did not turn around in his seat.

     Jim wracked his brain. “Regulus X? Isn’t that a penal colony?”

     McCoy’s drawl came from behind them. “It was. Now it’s a black market hub, of sorts. We need supplies.”

     Jim watched Spock hands move over the boards, expertly piloting the _Sheol_ down towards the large environmental shields that enclosed the buildings of the colony. As they approached, the Vulcan keyed in a sequence, and the large outer doors opened, admitting the small craft through an intervening airlock. With the distortion of the shields gone, Jim could see a number of makeshift docking bays, mostly filled with patchwork spacecraft, leading into the large dome-like buildings. The ship coasted smoothly into one of the empty berths, settling with a creak of metal, and Spock powered down the engines.

     As the boards dimmed in front of him, the Vulcan stood and moved towards the rear of the bridge, avoiding Jim’s eyes. Despite himself, the former captain watched him eagerly. “Are we heading down?”

     McCoy’s hand fell heavy on Jim’s shoulder and the young human instinctively shrugged him off. “We’re heading down. You’re staying here, kid.”

     Jim felt a surge of annoyance. “Fuck that, Bones. I... .”

     To his surprise, Spock stopped halfway through the door to the bridge and turned to face him, his countenance expressionless, his eyes blank. “Jim. You may be recognized here. Furthermore, we require someone to stay with the ship, and to aid in the event that we require a rapid escape.”

     Jim shot a glare at Bones, who merely returned his gaze evenly. “You’re staying. We didn’t blow through a _Srill-ar_ prison camp just to get caught because you got bored.”

     Frustration bloomed through the former captain, but he relented, stepping back and seating himself at the console Spock had just vacated. With a nod, the Vulcan stepped away, and after a beat, McCoy followed, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

 

 

 

     Several hours passed. Jim sat practically motionless in the pilot’s seat, watching the hypnotic pattern of stand-by lights flicker intermittently across the boards in front of him, fighting to keep his attention on the random chatter over the comm line. Finally, just as he was about to doze off, he heard the loud rumble and clang of the outer doors of the ship opening and closing, and the sound of McCoy’s voice muttering familiar obscenities. Jim leapt from the seat, stumbling slightly as his muscles cramped, and followed the doctor’s voice into the mess.

     As Jim rounded the corner, he was brought up short by the sight of Spock being helped up to lie flat on the table, green blood soaking through the sleeveless gray shirt he wore. Jim slid into the room, noting the Vulcan’s split lip and the appearance of bruises along the left side of his face. He saw the way Spock stared impassively at the ceiling as McCoy ripped his shirt open, exposing a deep and openly bleeding wound over the Vulcan's lower left ribcage. Jim knew that look; had seen it before: his former first officer was in pain, and attempting to block it. The hum was back in Jim’s mind, feeling erratic.

     “What the fuck happened? Were you attacked?” He stepped forward, careful to avoid the doctor.

     Bones didn’t look up from his work. “Fuckers pulled knives in a fistfight.” He grunted, spraying an antiseptic sealant into the wound and wiping away the worst of the blood. “Won’t be doing it again, though.”

     Spock made a small noise, his hands jerking reflexively as Bones worked his own fingers along the edges of the wound in the wake of a small regen unit, his brow furrowed. “Sorry, Spock, it’s deep; the regenerator will only get the top of it. Can you manage a trance?”

     “Yes, Leonard.” The Vulcan’s response was a bare whisper, and McCoy stepped back, wielding a hand-held scanner. Jim watched with fascination as Spock’s eyes closed, his breathing shallowed and slowed, and his body went limp, the hum in Jim’s mind fading into nothing.

     McCoy’s jaw was set, and he stood for a minute, ignoring the blood smeared on his hands and the faint beeping of his device. “Damn fucking Regulus,” he muttered.

     Jim remained silent, and suddenly the doctor seemed to snap out of it. “Stay with him, Jim. I’ll be right back.” Without waiting for an answer, Bones stalked out of the mess, and Jim was left staring at his former first officer. In the trance, Spock’s features were relaxed, the normal intensity diminished, and Jim’s eyes followed the graceful sweep of his brows, the strong line of his nose, high cheekbones, and the exotic pointed ears. He had a strange desire to touch the Vulcan’s face, and crossed his arms determinedly over his chest, startling slightly as the doctor loudly re-entered the room, his hands clean and several blankets in his arms.

     “He’ll be out for a few hours, probably, but he’ll need someone to stay with him. You ever help him come out of a trance before?” Bones gently arranged the blankets over Spock’s unmoving form, his own fingers stroking the Vulcan’s hair tenderly before pulling away.

     “No,” Jim replied shortly. He stepped back almost defiantly. “You gonna tell me what happened at least?”

     “No,” McCoy retorted. “Suffice it to say that we got most of the supplies we needed. We’ll do another run tomorrow and should be good to go.” He eyed Jim almost hopefully. “So, are you going to stay with him?”

     Jim’s eyes narrowed, and he lifted his chin petulantly. “You’re the doctor, Bones, doesn’t that fall under your job description?”

     Disappointment swept through the doctor’s eyes, and Bones shrugged, his voice quieter. “I couldn’t kick you out of sickbay, before, if he was hurt. Don’t you want... ?” The doctor broke off with a sigh. “Do you feel anything coming back, Jim? Anything at all?”

     Jim took another step back, the intensity of the doctor’s gaze making him confused and uneasy, responding defensively, “Maybe if you told me what it was that I’m missing.”

     Bones looked away, sighing again, reaching over to adjust one of the blankets. “Never mind; I’ll stay with him. Why don’t you go back to the bridge?”

     “Yeah.” Jim hesitated, but McCoy refused to look at him, and the former captain turned to leave. As he entered the hallway, he heard the doctor muttering under his breath and felt irritation well inside of him again. The unexpected impulse to touch reminded him of Spock’s words days earlier: _You do not remember what we are to each other_. But what were they? He still didn’t know, and his inability to find clarity within his convoluted memories was frustrating. He entered the bridge and looked down at his shaking hands. With a muffled curse, he gripped his hands into fists and walked deliberately to the main console, sitting down and staring at the panels, focusing on the slowly shifting patterns of lights.

 

 

 

     It was a fairly simple thing to wait until McCoy and Spock had disembarked the next day before securing the ship and concealing himself in a bulky coat and scarf, wrapping the long piece of fabric around his head and leaving just his eyes visible. Surreptitiously, Jim followed his friends’ path into a large domed building, his hand clutching a dagger he had discovered in the doctor’s cabin along with the clothing, hidden in the long sleeves of the coat.

     There were many other beings in the tightly winding corridors of the building, but they all seemed to be heading the same direction, and none seemed concerned with close examination of any other. After a few minutes of walking, Jim heard the steadily growing sounds of music, and chanting, and another hundred yards brought him to a large doorway that opened into a huge central room.

     Rows of seats rising to the high ceiling surrounded a circular area covered in what looked like sand. Jim slid into the seating area, unable to avoid the jostling arms of the excited onlookers, and stared down to the floor, where two men struggled against each other. The men appeared to be human, and their bare torsos were slick with sweat and blood. They were fighting bare-handed, but it was vicious, and Jim couldn’t stifle a gasp as the larger of the two slipped suddenly sideways and spun, snapping the neck of the other fighter. The audience screamed its approval, and the remaining combatant raised his arms in victory. Nearer to the floor, Jim saw electronic tablets being wielded by wildly gesturing men and women, apparently exchanging credits. The former captain scanned the room for his friends to no avail, and was about to turn to make his way out of the amphitheater when a huge roar from the crowd stopped him in his tracks. The music changed to a loud, thumping rhythm, and the audience stomped their feet along with the beat. Jim’s chest thudded with the powerful bass notes, and his mouth fell open when he looked down at the blood-covered sand.

     Stepping out into the center of the floor and standing very still was his former first officer. Spock was dressed in a sleeveless black shirt and loose black pants, with no visible sign of the injury from the day before. Jim could see the hidden power in the way his motionless body held a coiled stance, and could sense the lethality in the cold darkness of his eyes. A frisson of fear wound its way up Jim’s spine, and it had nothing to do with the Vulcan’s obvious purpose in the deadly arena.

     Three other fighters appeared from the lowest level of the stands, each larger than the next; all human, at least as far as Jim could tell. The music continued its deafening beat, but the crowd quieted in tremulous anticipation. There was a loud percussive noise, and the fighters swarmed.

     The match was quick, and harsh. There appeared to be no rules, except that death was the conclusive judge of victory. Relentless, merciless, with red blood smearing across his hands, Spock moved almost gracefully, seemingly heedless of any blows that made contact with his body.

     Jim stared, his breath quickening, his heart racing. The fear that had rippled down his body earlier was now a torrent in his veins and he realized he was shaking, remembering Spock’s intense gaze and the seemingly uncontrolled brushes of his mind, his almost single-minded focus on Jim, and the inhuman punch into the bulkhead. Jim recalled his own fractured visions of Spock’s supposed betrayal: cold eyes and an even colder dismissal as he turned his back on his shipmates, on his friends. Throwing a final glance at the Vulcan now standing above three lifeless bodies, the crowd roaring its praise around him, Jim retreated out of the arena and back to the ship.

 

 

 

     It was another few hours before Jim heard the sound of the hatch, and the sounds of muffled conversation. The former captain sat in the pilot’s chair, holding the dagger in his lap, his body tense, waiting. He had helped himself to McCoy’s stash of brandy, and the warmth of the alcohol was a sharp contrast to the chill of Jim’s thoughts.

     It wasn’t long before Jim heard the rustle of fabric and the doctor’s rough cough from the doorway to the bridge. He didn’t turn, but listened as McCoy walked towards him and sank into the adjacent seat.

     “You saw that, didn’t you.” The doctor’s voice was carefully even, and Jim knew it wasn’t a question.

     “Yeah, I saw it.”

     McCoy waited for a beat, and then reached for the half-empty bottle of brandy from where it sat on the console, taking a large swig. “It’s not what it looked like.”

     Jim turned his head just enough to fix McCoy with a flinty stare. “It looked like cold-blooded murder.” He turned the dagger over in his hand. “Are you going to keep trying to convince me that he’s the same peaceful Vulcan who would never betray his captain?”

     The doctor stilled, the bottle half-way to his mouth again.

     Jim shook his head. “You’re so worked up that I’ve been conditioned, or whatever. But what about him? Why did he really come for me, Bones? Is he even sane?”

     The doctor considered him for a moment, and swirled the golden liquid in the bottle, watching the patterns on the cut glass. “In a way, no, he’s not. With what he went through, and what he’s going through now... .” Bones glanced away, his voice trailing off, and then fixed Jim with an aggressive look. “The fighting’s a consequence of the fever.” He snorted. “Lucky for us, it also pays the bills.”

     Jim noted that the doctor didn’t answer his first question. “He said something about not being able to form a mental link with the girl from the ship. Is that the problem?”

     McCoy looked at him intensely. “Did he say anything else?”

     “No,” Jim replied tersely. “But I got the impression that the link was a big deal.”

     The doctor let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, the fact that he didn’t have a link with his partner meant whatever needed to happen during the cycle didn’t quite take, if you know what I mean. He’s not going to die, now, but there are other...complications. So, the fighting helps, a bit.” McCoy paused. “Until he can find his mate.”

     Jim grunted and turned away, not registering the doctor’s pointed look. “Can we trust him?”

     Bones straightened in his seat and set the brandy back onto the console. “I trust him with my life, Jim, just like you do.” Taking in the former captain’s grimace, he amended, “Like you did.”

     “I don’t trust anyone anymore.” Jim’s voice was hard, and he barely noticed as the doctor stood, a pained expression on his face, pausing only a moment before walking away.

 

 

 

     The message came in several hours later, on a coded frequency, and Jim hovered in the background as Bones and Spock exchanged a look and then both glanced at him. The doctor’s expression was now grave, and he slowly took a step towards the young human. “We’ve received a transmission from Kauhale.”

     Jim shrugged, not recognizing the name, and Bones continued, “The refugee colony we were heading to eventually; they’re in need of medical supplies, and we’re the closest to being able to deliver them.”

     Jim simply stared at him, and the doctor sighed before continuing, “So, I guess the question is, Jim, can we trust you?”

 

 


	6. Kauhale

Chapter Six: Kauhale

 

 

     The _Sheol_ descended rapidly through the atmosphere past gathering banks of clouds and landed smoothly on a broad, dark lava plain, slightly uneven against the landing gear. The plain extended out in all directions into a lush, dense rain forest, and a small cluster of squat buildings lay a short distance away, beyond the open area, nestled against the edge of the greenery. On the far horizon, an immense shield volcano rose against the dusky sky, the sun hanging low but still intense. Shutting down the engines, Spock rose from the pilot’s seat and exchanged a significant glance with McCoy before heading purposefully through the bridge doorway.

     As Jim stood to follow, Bones reached out and grasped his arm. “Jim, whatever happens, don’t interfere.”

     Jim pulled his arm free of the doctor’s grip. “I got it, Bones.” He glared, hating once again the fact that he was very much not in control of the situation. He turned his back on the doctor and, leaving the bridge and walking quickly down to the main hatchway, eagerly followed Spock out into the bright reddish-golden light.

     The air was fresh and humid and held a dull metallic scent, and Jim breathed in deeply, standing at the top of the ramp, heat still rising in shimmering waves from the black whorls of rock. Spock already stood at the foot of the ramp, and Jim noticed that he was wearing a weapons holster, his right hand lightly touching the handle of a phaser pistol. Raising his eyes, Jim saw several figures approaching, led by a large man. The man was obviously angry, his features contorted and his posture stiff, and he held a projectile weapon in his hand. Jim heard Bones behind him, felt him grab his arm again, keeping him in the doorway of the ship, and this time he didn’t resist.

     The large man stopped about twenty feet away from Spock and gripped his weapon with both hands, the rest of the group hesitating further back. He threw a fierce glance up at Jim. “You dare to bring him back here?”

     Jim couldn’t see Spock’s face, but the Vulcan’s hand didn’t move over his weapon and his voice was calm. “He is my responsibility and my charge. I will provide for him. This is not your affair, Akamu.”

     Akamu clearly became more enraged, the weapon now pointing directly at Spock. “And what of Nalani? What of your duty to her?”

     “She and I have no binding arrangement. That, also, is none of your affair.”

     “You fucking alien bastard.” Akamu hissed the words, the gun shaking visibly in his hands. Jim felt McCoy tense behind him, and for an instant, no one moved. Then, with a hoarse shout and a jerky movement forward, Akamu pulled the trigger. Jim gasped, hearing the dull sound of the projectile hitting the hull of the ship, and in one smooth motion Spock had un-holstered his own weapon and fired. The energy beam struck Akamu in the chest and he collapsed. Jim stared as a dark green stain spread across Spock’s left upper arm, sullying the thin white fabric of his tunic. The Vulcan ignored it, his face impassive, and holstered his weapon, motioning with his right hand to Jim and the doctor.

     The small crowd had surrounded Akamu and were casting dark looks at the three men, but did not intervene as they walked towards the collection of buildings. Jim hurried to keep up with the Vulcan. “Is he dead?”

     “No. But if he attempts to harm you, he will be.” Spock’s voice was cold, and Jim felt a shiver run down his spine, remembering the combat pit.

     Spock led them to a central building, and they ducked to enter through the small doorway. Inside, a hallway led to several side rooms, and they walked into the first one on the right. An elderly man sat there, behind a simple wooden desk, and, standing next to him, was a young woman with long black hair and flashing black eyes. Her gaze fixed immediately on Spock and then drifted towards Jim. Jim returned her look steadily, and saw her eyes narrow.

     The old man stood. “You have returned. You were successful?”

     Spock inclined his head. “Yes, Kayl. The supplies you requested are onboard our ship.” He paused and added, “This is James.”

     Jim nodded at the elder, and the old man studied him. “He is whom you sought?”

     “Yes.” Spock tilted his head. “May we have use of our previous dwelling?”

     The old man waved his hand. “You may. James will remain with you and Leonard.” He looked pointedly at Spock’s arm. “Perhaps you should go there now.”

     McCoy cut in, “I can actually patch that up better on the ship.”

     Kayl looked at the young woman next to him. “Nalani, perhaps you could show James to his dwelling while the doctor treats Spock.”

     Spock shifted, as if about to protest, but the young woman raised her chin. “I will see to him. You have my word no harm will come to him.”

     Jim tensed, irritated at being treated almost as a possession. Spock nodded and stepped back. “Thank you, Nalani.” He turned to Jim. “Leonard and I will join you shortly.”

     “Sure, whatever.” Jim’s sarcastic response caused a shadow to pass over Spock’s face, but the Vulcan turned and walked out of the room, Bones following two steps behind and shooting a warning glance back at the former captain.

     Nalani came from around the desk and stood in front of him, her gaze frankly challenging. “Well, come on, James.” Her pronunciation of his name was almost an epithet, and she walked briskly from the room. Jim took a breath and followed, deciding he had no choice.

     Evening was falling rapidly in the little village, and small globe lights were being lit outside the buildings and along the winding paths. Nalani headed towards the edge of the settlement, her long strides purposeful. As they neared yet another small building, this one set somewhat apart from the others, deeper into the impenetrable green of the forest, she abruptly stopped and turned to face him, her black eyes running over him appraisingly. “Who are you?” she asked.

     “What do you mean?” Jim replied, shifting unconsciously into a defensive stance, cognizant of the dagger hidden within the thin jacket he wore.

     She stepped forward. “Who are you to him?”

     “I was his friend,” he answered simply. It was the truth, however incomplete.

     She scoffed. “Bullshit.”

     Jim glanced around, looking to avert her strange intensity. “Is this where we’re headed?” he asked, gesturing at the small building in front of them.

     But she was not so easily dissuaded, stepping closer yet again, so that he could feel the warmth of her body, could smell the soft perfume of her hair. “I saved his life when he was dying of the fever. Me.” She pointed to her chest, deep emotion in her voice. “You weren’t there.” She drew in a shaky breath. “He cried out for you, again and again. Even when he was with me, he called for you. And you weren’t there. If it weren’t for me, he would have died horribly, screaming your name. You left him, _Jim_ , and I hate you. I hate you for that.”

     Jim stared at her, his chest constricting, his mind racing. It was suddenly hard to even breathe. “I don’t... ,” he whispered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was... .” His voice broke, and he trailed off at the sound of footsteps behind them and the familiar hum of Spock’s mind pressing against his. Jim raised an involuntary hand to his temple, feeling trapped, a sensation of panic rising inexorably.

     Nalani stepped back as McCoy and Spock approached, but the Vulcan’s eyes swept between her angry expression and Jim’s shell-shocked one and he stopped. “What did you tell him, Nalani?”

     “The truth,” she spat, glaring up at him.

     There was no anger in Spock’s voice, only a dull hint of defeat. “It was not your truth to tell.”

     She made an ugly, strangled sound in her throat and, with one last pain-filled glare at Jim, ran from them back toward the center of the settlement. Spock’s eyes slowly came up to meet Jim’s.

     “What the fuck?” Jim whispered, his voice unsteady.

     McCoy pushed past Spock to step close to Jim. “Let’s get on inside, kid.” He glanced back at Spock. “All of us. We can talk in there.”

     Jim blindly let himself be steered into the small building, which shortly became illuminated with the same globe lights as were outside, bringing up a modest living space, a kitchen of sorts, a bathroom, and two small bedrooms towards the back. The home had a faint musty smell to it, but it was tidy, and the sheets on the beds and the towels in the bathroom were clean. “Home, sweet, home,” McCoy muttered, heading into the kitchen area with a small satchel of supplies.

     Jim stood just inside the doorway, hesitant to go further, remembering the deadly, cold eyes of the sandy arena. Spock walked in and unfastened his holster, setting it on the small table. The bloodied left sleeve of his white tunic had been sliced off just above the wound, and Jim could see the small patch of shiny pale flesh left by the regenerator. The Vulcan turned resolutely to face his former captain, obviously waiting for Jim to speak first. The human watched him, noting the distress filling expressive brown eyes and the way one of Spock’s hands just barely reached forward, as if in a plea.

     “Why?” Jim finally asked, his eyes narrowing. “Why did you come for me? Because you need me to stay alive, in case the fever comes back?”

     Spock flinched, and his thoughts whirled dizzily against Jim’s mind, but his voice remained steady. “I do need you, Jim, but not in the way you believe.”

     “Oh, so not just as a survival fuck.”

     He blurted the words, and Spock stepped back as if he’d been physically struck, his mind roiling. “Allow me to explain.”

     Jim crossed his arms, the irritation and frustration he’d felt over the past week at his ignorance and helplessness suddenly making itself known; the fear of the Vulcan retreating before the former captain’s growing temper. “Okay, so explain. Explain why you’re yelling for me while you’re fucking that girl. That girl, who blames me for this whole thing, for some reason. Explain why you’re always hovering around the edges of my thoughts, like you’re searching for something.” He stopped, his eyes wide. “My mind...you need my mind.”

     “Your mind calls to me.” Desperation tinged Spock’s voice, and he reached forward suddenly, stretching his hand out towards Jim. “Do you not remember, _t’hy’la_?” McCoy was standing in the entryway to the kitchen, watching them.

     Jim felt something stir inside his mind, something small and strange rising up as if in answer to that word, familiar yet unfamiliar. Something he couldn’t place and didn’t understand. He felt an impulse to reach back, to touch Spock’s hand, and rebelled, tightening his arms, finding security in the ease of anger. “You said that before, but it doesn’t make any sense. Why would I call for you? All I knew then was that you betrayed us. Betrayed me.”

     He shook his head sharply, as if trying to clear it; to clear away that distracting hum, that disturbing impulse. “What were you going to do anyway, Spock? You couldn’t link with her, so you had to come and find me? Pulled me out of that prison camp to hang out and wait until you needed me to service you? Out of one form of captivity and into another? I mean, sure, thanks and all, but I’d prefer to keep my brain and my ass to myself, you know?” Jim realized he was shouting, but it felt good. All the pain and buried hatred from his captivity, his shame, his fear, the persistent confusion and his feelings of vulnerability; all were coming out, _finally_ , and even though some corner of his mind screamed that this was terribly wrong, he couldn’t stop himself. It was the first burst of empowerment he’d felt in two years, and it heated his blood.

     “You are my...my... .” Spock couldn’t seem to find the words. “Please. We are....I need you to... _shroi,_ Jim. _Talukh nash-veh k’dular, ashayam. Sanu. Shroi, t’hy’la_.”

     The words echoed in Jim’s head, and, for an instant he thought he should know what they meant. But then the instant was gone, and only his rage remained. “I have no idea what the fuck that means. All I know is that I won’t be used anymore. I won’t be kept anymore for someone else’s purposes, for someone else’s agenda. I’m not yours! Not your responsibility, not your ‘charge’, not your whore, not your anything. Do you hear me?” He practically screamed it, advancing on the deathly pale Vulcan in a blinding rage.

     Spock reached up to his temples with shaking hands, still murmuring the alien words, and Jim felt the crashing wash of the Vulcan’s mind turn into a growing painful pressure. The human kicked out at the table next to them, overturning it with a crash. “And stay out of my head! I don’t know what they did to you, but I don’t want you fucking with my mind.”

     “Jim!” McCoy was suddenly holding his arms. “Jim, goddammit, just stop. Stop! What are you doing?”

     Jim shrugged him off and headed for the exit, remembering at the last minute the hostility that had greeted him when they had arrived. He swore and spun, heading back into one of the small bedrooms and slammed the door.

 

 

 

     The time seemed to crawl by as Jim lay on the unfamiliar bed, gripping his dagger. He had heard McCoy’s muffled voice briefly through the door after he had left, but he could no longer feel Spock’s mind. It was as if a wall had come down, separating them. His anger still gripped him along with frustration at the tumble of conflicting and incomplete memories that flickered constantly through his mind, fueled by the harsh words he had spoken. But behind all that, despite himself, was a growing sense of guilt. “Fuck,” he mumbled to the ceiling, seeing again Spock’s stricken face as Jim screamed at him, hearing the Vulcan’s voice speak unfamiliar words, desperately wanting Jim to understand...something. He remembered Spock’s words on the ship: _You called out to me._ He took a breath and pulled himself up, putting the dagger back in his jacket and opened the door. It was time to find some answers.

 

 

 

     The small house was bathed in darkness, except for a single globe light illuminating the small table and chairs, now upright again. Jim was not surprised to see McCoy sitting there, a mug of something in front of him, regarding Jim with a dangerous expression as the former captain sat down across from him.

     “Where’s Spock?” Jim didn’t feel like dragging this out.

     “He’s in the other room.” The doctor’s eyes bored into Jim’s. “I had to give him a pretty strong sedative. You did quite a number on him.”

     “He shouldn’t have been in my head,” Jim replied flippantly.

     McCoy suddenly shoved his mug viciously across the table and it fell to the floor with a crash, echoing loudly in the small house. “You stupid fucking bastard. That mind link you were taunting him about? It’s with you! He’s linked to you. How the fuck do you think we even found you, huh?”

     Jim stared at him, his blood running cold. “Linked? But, I never felt anything. Except after you got me out and his shields failed.” His eyes widened. “They weren’t failing, were they?”

     The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know how the damn thing works, Jim. He knew you were alive, while the _Srill-ar_ had us, even with the drugs, even though he knew something was wrong with the link. It wasn’t broken; he could sense your presence. He said he felt you call him, and he tried to reach out to you, but there was always something in the way. Just like he’s been trying to reach you since we picked you up.”

     Jim remembered his dreams, pushed away in times of consciousness because they hurt too much. Always the same; always of Spock. He curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his mouth, breathing rapidly. He felt manipulated, trapped. “Was this what you wouldn’t tell me? Back on the ship?”

     McCoy watched him. “I wouldn’t let Spock tell you. You didn’t trust him, your memories were distorted; I didn’t want to be responsible for you having a complete breakdown. And you wouldn’t let him touch you; barely even let him near you.”

     Jim licked his lips nervously. “And that’s why he couldn’t link to that girl?”

     McCoy’s expression hardened. “It’s why she blames you, because even though she saved him, he still couldn’t think of anyone but you. It’s why he’s still suffering the aftereffects of the fever; he had a link, but it wasn’t with his partner.” The doctor leaned forward, his eyes intense. “You’re his bondmate, Jim. You were bonded before the war and for some reason you don’t remember anything of it, but the bond’s still there. He needs you.”

     The former captain stared at the broken pieces of the mug on the floor. “I don’t want him, Bones, I don’t think I’ll ever want anyone again, forced or not. The thought of someone in my mind...my mind was the only place I had left.” He made a sickened noise. “And even now, I don’t know for sure what’s real, and what isn’t. I still see him walking away half the time, leaving me to torture and death. I can’t remember anything about a bond...I can’t do this.”

     “You’ve been through a lot.”

     Jim suddenly stood up, fresh anger blazing through him. He saw through the shards of his broken memories; thought of the sickening quiet on the bridge when he’d known it was finally over, when the battle had ended and they had lost. Of the screams of his people as they were dragged away. He thought of the fire storm that engulfed his homeworld as he was forced to watch, helpless. The faces of the guards as they defiled him, the defeated eyes of his fellow prisoners, the sick muck that smeared over the floor of his cell with the rains, the bruises, the indignities, the pain. He thought of who he had been, before it had all been destroyed. And who he was now: used, empty, changed. _No more._ “Don’t fucking patronize me. I’m not his possession, nor his prize. I’m grateful for getting me out of that hellhole, but it doesn’t change anything, really.”

     “You were his friend, before. Maybe you could start there again.”

     “We’re different people, now. I’m different. I don’t want this. I don’t want a mental leash, and I don’t want another keeper. I belong to no one.” He practically shouted it.

     McCoy’s face was haggard, his skin almost gray under the overhead light. “I don’t think either of you can get out of this, Jim.”

     Jim’s face contorted, and he spun towards the main door. “I didn’t ask your fucking opinion, Doctor.” He gripped the handle, his back to McCoy. “When he wakes up, tell him to break the link, or shield it, or fucking hit himself over the head until it goes away. I’m not his problem anymore.”

     He pulled the door open roughly, and stepped out into the cool, humid air, hearing McCoy’s distraught voice. “Do you realize you’re leaving him just the way you thought he left you? You’ll never forgive yourself for this!” Jim didn’t look back, letting the door close behind him as he walked out into the darkness.

 

 


	7. The Long Road

Chapter Seven: The Long Road

 

 

     Jim had thought it would be difficult finding a way off-planet, but it turned out to be ridiculously easy. He had found Nalani sitting by herself, huddled on the ground next to the building where he had first met her, as if she had been waiting. She had roused herself and stood, betraying no surprise at seeing him. She had studied his expression with an almost satisfied air and told him to follow her.

     Akamu had a ship. It was small, and had no weaponry or any great speed, but it was space-worthy and would top out at warp one point seven. The large man had stepped back, one arm protectively held around his sister, and watched Jim step through the main hatch. Jim hadn’t asked them any questions, and they had not deigned to explain themselves. Jim checked the gauges and started the engines and the tiny craft made for the sky, the silver hull catching the first rays of the sun before disappearing ever higher into the black.

_The dreams were the same, but different. He walked through the corridors of his ship, but the lights were dimmed, and he was alone. He felt cold, and when he looked down, he was wearing the filthy clothes from the prison camp, and there was mud on his feet._

 

 

     Two months passed, as best as Jim could reckon. He knew more than enough to keep his small ship in good condition and to coax it into performing even better. He used his wits and his intuition to make cautious, temporary alliances for food and equipment, eluding capture, staying in the shadows. With the solitude, Jim had become adept at closing off his emotions, suppressing the feelings of anger, sadness, and guilt. Every now and then he would feel a sharp pain, as he remembered the Vulcan’s eyes, but he would viciously repress his feelings, hiding them deep where he would never voluntarily go.

_Something changed. The corridors of the ship were brighter, and he sensed another presence there, hidden just beyond his vision. And where he could shut away his feelings while awake, here he could not help but feel, and in those hidden places he found warmth._

 

 

     The burning anger had dissipated into a lingering frustration and shame. His waking memories were as convoluted as they ever had been, and, as in the prison camp, Jim found himself yearning for his dreams, where there was no doubt, or pain.

     As Jim’s lonely journey around the edges of civilization continued, he heard snippets of news filtering through. The _Srill-ar_ were on the defensive for the first time since they appeared almost three years before. A counter-offensive of sorts had taken root, with a secret weapon that could destroy the wraiths. There were no details, and no confirmation, but Jim found his thoughts returning again and again to McCoy’s words those months ago:  _He killed them_.

 

_The corridors were brilliantly lit again, so as to almost blind him. He sensed Spock’s presence next to him, and saw his friend reach out. Jim reached back, but as their hands neared, the dream shattered into a million fragments of light._

 

 

     Six months had gone by since Jim’s departure from Kauhale, and the rebellion against the wraiths had gained momentum. Even on the fringes of what had been the closely-guarded space of empires, whispers of uprising had turned into open revolt. A new, ragtag fleet of former pleasure yachts, garbage scows, small combat craft, and pirate cruisers had assembled, and were acting to slowly take out the mercenary vessels that aided the larger _Srill-ar_ motherships. And even the motherships themselves, once impenetrable, were now apparently vulnerable. Even Jim, isolated as he was, had heard of the fall of the ship near _Qo’noS_.

     Jim had always believed in luck in one form or another. For good or for bad, random chance always seemed to play a nonrandom role in shaping his life. Perhaps it was luck that allowed him to save the life of a stranger fleeing a mercenary mob during a routine fuel stop. Perhaps he should have somehow expected it when that stranger, a Vulcan, requested passage on his ship and confided in him that a psionic call had gone out: a call to war echoing through the dispersed remnants of a pacifist culture. All to come to Kauhale.

     The dreams and the solitude had brought some clarity to the former captain. His memories wavered in and out of focus, combining with his remembrances of his last conversation with McCoy to bring different definitions of his relationship with Spock: friend, enemy, bondmate, betrayer. And one definition that seemed to come from somewhere else, from beyond the tortured memories or the harsh recollections of his short time with his former shipmates: _brother of my soul_. It was this definition that brought to him a need to know, and it was this definition that seemed to resonate strangely within the dark areas in his mind. And with his new passenger, another need stood out: the need to help. He could stand by no longer on the edges of this new war. And so both those needs led along a single road stretching out before him, leading to Kauhale.

 

 

 

     Srel was a poet before he was taken to be delivered as a slave to the _Srill-ar_. Fortunately for him, the mercenary ship became disabled and crashed before reaching its destination and Srel escaped, succeeding in staying hidden before sensing the call. As he told Jim, he had nothing left to lose. It was fifteen days to Kauhale, taking a roundabout course that could not be tracked. Srel was quiet and kept to himself, as Jim did, and after six days they had established a comfortable routine. Until one evening.

     Sound travelled too easily on the small craft, and, as Jim approached his own cabin after a shift on the bridge, he passed by Srel’s tiny cabin and was stopped by the sound of a mournful voice. “ _Rom-halan, tal-kam. Talukh nash-veh k’dular, ashayam.”_ There was the sound of a ragged breath being drawn, practically a sob, and Jim had turned to go when a faint memory forced him to pause. Something that Spock had said to him, months before, during that devastating confrontation: those same words, spoken just now by another Vulcan. Torn, Jim hesitated, and then the half-open door to Srel’s cabin creaked open.

     “James.”

     Jim made a move to leave, mumbling an apology, but Srel held up a hand. “Wait. I wish to speak with you.” Jim turned just enough to see the Vulcan’s light brown eyes, uncharacteristically soft in the harsh corridor lighting. “I understand that you value your privacy, and I would normally not ask this, but I...wish for company.”

     Jim bit his lip, but silently inclined his head and stepped forward. Srel gestured him into his cabin, where Jim perched awkwardly on the small chair next to the door. The Vulcan lowered himself, kneeling, to a mat on the floor, directly in front of the human. His face was expressionless, but his shoulders were tense. He began speaking without prompting, his voice flat. “My bondmate died over a year ago, some time after I made my escape. The torn bond lingered in my mind. I did not want to heal it, and could not, given my circumstances. These past days on your ship have been the first in which I could truly meditate, and I was able to finally heal. To finally release her. Her name was T’Arelee, and she was my wife. I thank you for hearing me, and for hearing her name.”

     Srel made a ritual gesture with his hands and bowed slightly. Jim stared at him, feeling the swell of long-denied emotions threatening his composure. He wanted to run, to escape, and yet he found himself asking, “What was it that you said? Before you came out into the corridor?”

     Srel blinked at him. “It was a farewell.”

     Jim shook his head. “No, I’ve heard those words before. Someone said them to me, and I didn’t understand, but it wasn’t farewell.”

     The Vulcan tilted his head slightly. “Some of the words would not be for outworlders.” His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Who said those words to you?”

     Jim’s breathing had quickened. “My...friend. He is Vulcan. We shared a link.” He winced, and corrected, “Share a link. I don’t think it’s been broken, but I can’t feel it.”

     Srel’s gaze was intense. “What link do you share?”

     “I don’t know.” Jim realized his body was practically shaking with tension. “It happened before the war, and my memories were damaged.” He looked away. “Among other things.”

     There was a long silence, and Jim felt Srel’s gaze on him. Finally, the Vulcan said, “James, I am not a mind healer, but I have a strong gift. Perhaps, if you will allow it, I could aid you in this; I sense your struggle.”

     Jim’s hands were clenched into fists, and he could feel a sweat break out over his forehead. “I...I can’t. Just...just tell me what the words meant. Please.”

     Srel’s gaze did not waver. “I said: ‘I cherish thee, beloved.’”

     Jim’s breath left him in a sharp, painful exhale, and he passed his hand over his eyes, his heart pounding. He sensed again the dark areas in his mind, the broken memories, the things hidden, and his conscious need to understand finally overruled his instinct for self-protection. “Srel,” he whispered, “help me to remember. I need to remember.” He felt the Vulcan rise and move forward, and he felt warm fingers against his skin, and his vision disappeared into a cascade of the past.

_They talked for hours, yet did not touch. He learned of things rarely spoken aloud in Vulcan culture: the concept of_ t’hy’la _, the pull of the soul, the reason for a catastrophic loss of control. When they had finally melded, finally touched, it felt like everything he ever wanted was in his grasp. He thought this had been worth dying for._

_The first caress was tentative, human fingers against Vulcan skin. Brushing along a cheekbone, along a jawline, down a throat, finding a yearning that met his own. Paired fingers touched his lips, a whisper of “_ ashayam _”, and they fell into each other._

_Brown eyes, normally defiantly expressive in spite of years of Vulcan training, were now positively glowing with warmth and anticipation. “Jim. I am yours, and always shall be. It would be my honor to bond with you.”_

_He was running, his mate at his side. There was only one chance to reach the main power grid. A surge of energy might do it; might save the ship. But when they rounded the corner, their enemies were waiting-it was too late. He felt his wrist gripped, and he was shoved back and down as the weapons discharged. He felt hideous pain rip through their bond as green blood sprayed across the floor, felt his mate’s desperate wish to protect as a lean body rushed at their attackers._

_His mate had been dragged away, lost to him physically. He clung to their mental connection, their bond that could not be broken. He felt the pain in his own body increase as the torture progressed, and when it stopped, he was confused. And then he knew where they would try to attack him next. It was his turn to protect. He deliberately focused, avoiding the bond. It did not exist. A friend, nothing more. He repeated it over and over as he felt the probe rip into his thoughts, and his mind erupted in agony._

_What have I done? Oh,_ t’hy’la _, what have I done?_

 

 

     “What have I done? I left him. I left him!” The meld broke in shards and Jim fell away from Srel to land on the floor, curling in on himself, harsh cries of grief and pain ripping through his throat. He pressed his hands over his mouth and screamed until his voice was raw and then simply lay, trembling, his mind shuddering with the force of the returned memories, now complete, now devastatingly clear.

     “James.” The voice came from above him, calm. Jim turned away. “James.” Srel was more insistent. “It was not your fault. They damaged your mind. Your memories were distorted, changed, a function of how you were trying to deflect the torture and the trauma you suffered. Your bond is intact, but simply inaccessible to you right now.”

     “I don’t deserve it. What I did, what I said; how could I have thought that about him? That he would betray me?” The human’s voice was a harsh whisper.

     “You were trying to protect him. I cannot tell precisely what they did to you without a deeper meld, which I am not competent to attempt. Your false memories were a shield, of sorts, hiding the bond, and effectively hiding his importance to you.” Srel’s eyes were sad. “Even to yourself.”

     Jim lay still on the floor, his hands now over his eyes. So much time gone by, and his last words to his bondmate were horrible: full of cruelty and ignorant spite. He felt Srel move closer, covering him with a thin blanket. “He will understand. _Kaiidth_. You will return to him, and your bond will be restored to you both.”

 

 


	8. In Dreams

Chapter Eight: In Dreams

 

 

_He ran, now, through the corridors, frantic, searching. And when he found his bondmate at last, he cried out his name, saw him turn. And it was suddenly too much to bear, for now amongst the warmth and the new certainty were devastating guilt and fear, and overwhelming sorrow. The dark, clouded emotions welled around him like smoke, obscuring his mate, and he was falling away... ._

 

 

     For Jim, the last nine days of the journey passed in a haze. He felt again trapped, but this time in a prison of his own making. He barely slept, disturbed by his dreams now instead of comforted by them. He dared not send an advance communication to their destination; not only would it run the risk of interception, but he did not know what to say. Words were not nearly sufficient. And the bond was still blocked to him. Jim did not push; did not attempt to break through his self-imposed barriers. Inwardly, he felt that even if he were to succeed, he would not deserve what he found there.

     As they decelerated out of warp, on the solar side of the blue-green world, braking roughly for a concealed atmospheric entry at the behest of the planetside controller, Jim’s hands were white on the panels, his mind involuntarily, even now, seeking outwards.

     The landing area was different; the ground surface was polished, and defensive weapons stations dotted the area. There was an interference shield overhead that restricted sensor probes, and many other small ships were berthed under more simplistic camouflaging tarps. The cluster of buildings along the edge of the rain forest had expanded and modernized, and Jim’s craft itself had been subjected to a powerful sensor sweep upon exiting warp.

     Jim powered down the engines and, with a glance at Srel, who stood already holding his small carryall, exited the bridge, opened the outer doors and stepped out into the heat and humidity. A small group of people was heading towards them from the nearby buildings, but Jim saw only one figure, walking at the rear of the approaching party.

     Their eyes locked, and Jim moved forward with stiff deliberateness, his hands clenched, his jaw tight, ignoring the other unfamiliar faces, dimly sensing Srel stepping over and raising a hand, deflecting questions to himself.

     Spock had stopped, standing straight, the strong breeze ruffling his dark hair and the white tunic he wore. His eyes held that same deep, questioning look as when he had seen Jim those long months before, when the former captain had first come on board the _Sheol_. But now, the reason behind his expression was finally clear to Jim, and the human stopped an arm’s reach from his bondmate, searching his face, holding out a tentative hand to plead, to beg, to dare to offer touch. He searched, too, for that soft hum of Spock’s mind, for that gentle brush that had sought so patiently for any lingering connection between them.

     “I remember. Spock, I remember. I can’t feel the bond, but I know it’s there and I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry. I failed you.”

     “ _T’hy’la t’nash-veh_. _Ple’ma tsu rashaya?”_ The words whispered between them, even as Jim felt the Vulcan’s mind reach to caress his thoughts and he felt Spock’s hand touch his own, entwining their fingers together without hesitation. A deep, desperate surge of emotions blazed through Jim’s mind, mirrored by a strangely familiar sensation radiating along his hand and up his arm, and Jim _reached_ , pushing deliberately against that inexplicable barrier in his mind. The hum grew into a wave, and Jim heard nothing but the sound of his mate’s mind, saw nothing but warm, brown eyes, felt nothing but the press of their hands and thoughts. He felt something crack in his mind and suddenly blow wide open, and his own emotions crashed through, meeting Spock’s, and expanding into a brilliant flare of energy and love that overtook Jim’s senses. And he felt himself falling.

_He was dreaming. He was on a soft bed, still in his clothes. His mate was laying next to him, holding his hand, asleep as well, the smallest of smiles on his lips. He felt a disharmony in his mind, an undeniable voice commanding him, ordering him to do...something. He could not resist, did not understand; only wished to make the voice stop. It was time. He reached into his jacket and removed the dagger. A quick movement, and there was the sight of bright green against white. His arm moved again, and the voice changed, and he was himself suddenly on the floor, his vision clouded by growing darkness. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, a deeper, darker ache in his mind, the press of fingers against his face, and he suddenly wished desperately to wake up. Wake up, wake up now!_

 

 

     Jim opened his eyes to the sight of a dull gray ceiling and the subtle beep of medical monitors. He blinked, disoriented, feeling the bond strongly in his mind, his mate’s subdued emotions: concern, fear, love, thrumming beneath his thoughts. His head ached, but he welcomed it, and, closing his eyes briefly, allowed himself to savor it. He had been so afraid to find anger and hatred and all manner of dark things within their bond, after what had transpired between them, and the powerful love that he had encountered had been more than he ever could have dreamed.

     Jim blinked his eyes suddenly open as a throb of deep pain resonated unexpectedly through the bond, and he remembered the strangely vivid dream. He unsteadily pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and looked down at himself. He was wearing an unfamiliar shirt and pants; his own clothes missing. He looked around, seeing a small room, obviously a medical setting. And then a small sound from the doorway drew his attention.

     Jim took in the slumped posture, how the Vulcan leaned ever so slightly on the doorframe. He saw the gray look of Spock’s skin, the dark greenish smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the echo of pain through the bond as he moved. Jim felt the room swim as horror took hold of him. “That dream...wasn’t really a dream, was it? I tried to kill you.” He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

     Spock took a halting step further into the room. “It was not your fault, _ashayam_. They implanted it in your mind, a mental trigger. You did not know of it, and could not have stopped it. I found it when I melded with you.”

     Jim still couldn’t move, feeling hysteria well up inside of him. He swallowed, staring into brown eyes, clinging desperately to the unyielding love that still poured across their bond. “You saved me, didn’t you, even after I did that to you. After all I did to you.”

     “They implanted a kill-order as well, to function immediately after your attack. During the meld, I interrupted it and removed the conditioning from your mind. All is as it should be, now.” Spock stepped closer, reaching out to grasp the back of a metal chair that stood beside the bed, now obviously in need of support.

     Jim managed to shake his head. “But...why? Why would they do that? They had taken you away, sent me away. Why?”

     The Vulcan’s voice was weak, strained. “I do not know, Jim. Perhaps a fail-safe were we ever to escape and find each other again.”

     Jim’s memory stirred, and he saw again them standing side-by-side during that horrible _Srill-ar_ victory broadcast, chained, bloodied. He felt again the heartrending anguish as crewmembers were, in groups, taken away, dragged away; some screaming, others crying, more walking silently to their fates: death, slavery, prison camps. Over and over it was repeated that the _Enterprise_ had fallen, and the command team was defeated, and would forever be separated and therefore held in defeat. So this was the final assurance, then. A mental trigger, designed to function if they ever were to come together again, built around their bond. Their effectiveness as a team was well known; however, their bond had been a secret, until his torture. The _Srill-ar_ were nothing if not thorough.

     Jim stared down at his shaking hands. “I tried to block it. I tried to push it away so they wouldn’t know, but they found it anyway. I only succeeded in fucking up my own memories when they ripped into my brain. I convinced myself that you were nothing but a traitor.”

     “You tried to protect me, _ashayam_.” Spock’s hand slipped, and, without thought, Jim moved to catch him, wrapping his arms around him. The Vulcan’s weight drew them both to the floor, and Jim felt the bond widen even more as they touched. His breath caught as he sensed phantom pain chase across his chest, felt an overwhelming fatigue and that incredible, all-encompassing love. It was the love that broke him, finally, and tears, the first since before the war, streaked down his cheeks as he pressed his mouth to his bondmate’s hair.

     “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry... .”

     The mantra repeated over and over, and he was hardly aware of someone else rushing into the room until he heard McCoy’s angry drawl overhead. “What the fuck is going on here?” Jim felt the doctor’s hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him away, and he clung ever tighter, a desperate sob erupting from his throat.

     “Leonard. Please.”

     Spock’s quiet voice, little more than a whisper, forced an immediate reaction from the doctor. McCoy’s hands gentled and he knelt down beside them. “Jim, you can stay with him, but he needs to get back in bed. He never went into a healing trance after the surgery and he’s still in bad shape.”

     Jim’s arms tightened involuntarily, eliciting a spark of pain through their connection, and he blinked rapidly, catching his breath and easing his grip, allowing McCoy to reach the Vulcan. The doctor ran his scanner over Spock’s body and frowned. “Well, you’re either going back into surgery, or you can try to heal yourself, but something has to happen soon.” His voice was tight, and Jim could literally feel the doctor’s tension and serious concern through McCoy’s proximity to his bondmate.

     “I will attempt a healing trance,” Spock replied, and Jim forced his eyes away from his mate to look at McCoy, a question hovering unasked.

     “Don’t worry, Jim will stay with you.” McCoy’s expression was dark, and he fixed the former captain with a question of his own.

     Jim flinched, but held the doctor’s stare. “Yes,” he answered, “I won’t leave him.” He looked into brown eyes. “I’ll never leave you again. I promise.”

 

 

 

     Much later, Jim lay beside his bondmate in a darkened room. He could hear the soft sounds of the rain forest outside: the steady drip of water through broad leaves and the muted calls of night creatures. Spock reclined on his back under a blanket while his human lay on his side, facing his mate, every now and then stroking a hand across the Vulcan’s face, along his arm, or through his hair. Jim was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep. The not-dream from before was still too terrifying, despite Spock’s assurances that the conditioning was permanently gone from his mind.

     A sound from the doorway caught Jim’s attention, and he looked over to see a familiar silhouetted figure.

     “I apologize for disturbing you.” Srel’s even voice cut through the ambient sounds.

     Jim cleared his throat and slipped from the bed carefully, padding over to the older Vulcan. “You’re not disturbing me. I’m sorry I left you back there.”

     Srel raised a hand. “I took no offense. It was necessary.” He looked over at the bed. “Doctor McCoy informed me of what took place, and I told him of what I knew from our meld. He knows it was not your fault.”

     Jim ducked his head, his cheeks coloring and guilt welling even stronger. “That probably can’t be said for the rest of the settlement. Or for myself, really.”

     “The doctor said that Spock refused to allow treatment until he was assured that you were not to be held accountable. The doctor was most...incensed about that.” Srel raised his eyes to encompass the quiet room. “The circumstances of your bondmate’s injuries are being closely guarded. He is important. As you are.”

     Jim glanced back at Spock. “He can kill them.”

     “So I understand. And he can teach others to do so.”

     “Others who have a strong gift.” Jim met Srel’s eyes and inclined his head. “I thank you for hearing me. You released me, back there on the ship.”

     Srel held out his hand in the human manner. “Doctor McCoy told me who you are, Captain Kirk. And who your bondmate is. I am honored to join you both in this fight.”

     Jim clasped the Vulcan’s hand briefly and firmly. “This fight that we’re going to win, my friend.”

     Srel bowed slightly, glancing again towards the bed before turning and walking briskly away down the dimly-lit hallway. Outside, the rain fell harder, and Jim’s eyes returned to his mate’s features. Crossing back over to the bed, he studied the long form in front of him, a slew of memories, newly returned, clamoring within his mind. He felt the familiar impulse to touch, and reached to curl their fingers together.

     “You took fucking long enough, you know.” McCoy’s rough voice broke through the rustle of water over leaves.

     “I know,” Jim replied, his own voice quiet. He sensed the doctor move into the room, heard the soft beeping of the hand-held sensor unit.

     McCoy flipped the unit off with a flick of his wrist and grunted. “He’ll be coming out of it soon.” He stood silently for a handful of seconds and then looked over at Jim. “Srel told me about the meld. And Spock insisted that you weren’t at fault for attacking him like that. But something tells me that you’re not letting yourself off that easily.”

     “What I did was unforgiveable. And you were right when you said you couldn’t trust me.” Jim’s grip tightened on Spock’s fingers.

     McCoy sighed. “I was there when he woke up, after you left those months ago. I’m not going to lie to you; it was bad. Even I was ready to give up on you. But he insisted that you would return, was sure of it. And when he came up with that crazy plan to infiltrate the _Srill-ar_ motherships, he said that it was what you would have done. He knew you were coming, you know. He said he could feel it, that you called to him again. I remember being shocked to shit, but figured he was right because he actually smiled at me when he said it.”

     Jim set his jaw, and he felt McCoy’s hand on his shoulder. “Jim, we’ve all of us been down dark roads these past few years. We’ve all done fucking unforgiveable things and all of us have demons hanging over our shoulders. But we have to look forward. It’s the only way to stay sane, to keep going on. You’ve been given a second chance, despite everything. Make it count.”

     Jim pressed his lips together, feeling the first stirrings of his mate’s fingers against his own. “I can’t believe he’d love me again.” He raised his eyes to the doctor’s. “And you, Bones. I left you, too.”

     McCoy shook Jim’s shoulder slightly. “He never stopped, Jim. Beyond anything that I did when we were being held by those fucking wraith bastards, I believe it was his love for you that kept him alive. They could make him feel all the evil things you could imagine, but never could touch what he held for you.” The doctor stepped closer. “And I’m not one to judge. Hell, kid, I’m probably more at fault than anyone. I should have told you the truth, when we first found you. Spock wanted to; I should have listened to him.” He smiled crookedly. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

     A ghost of an answering smile drifted across Jim’s face, and he moved his free hand to cover the doctor’s. A soft surge of awareness began to travel across the bond, and Jim sent his own gentle reassurance winding back to meet it. He held on to their hands: his bondmate, the brother of his soul, and his oldest friend, the brother of his heart, listening to the soft sounds of the rain, allowing his thoughts to drift unhindered towards the future at last.

 

 

Chapter End Notes:

 

 _Ple’ma tsu rashaya?_ : Cannot the same be said for me? (VLD)

 

 


	9. Remember Me

Chapter Nine: Remember Me

 

 

     Jim couldn’t force himself to watch as McCoy helped Spock out of the trance. But he stayed, stubbornly, his eyes closed as he heard the sharp impacts of blows against his bondmate’s face, feeling the Vulcan’s struggle to regain consciousness. When Jim opened his eyes again, Spock was sitting upright, his legs over the side of the bed, and McCoy was running his scanner. The doctor nodded wordlessly to the Vulcan and turned to face Jim. “He’ll be alright.” He glanced towards the door. “I’ve got to go make sure the others are minding their own business.” Turning back to Spock, he tilted his head, his voice softening. “You’ll call me, if you need me?”

     “Yes, Leonard. Thank you.”

     Bones left, and as the door closed behind him, Jim heard the click of the lock sliding into place. Blue eyes met brown, and Jim stepped closer to the bed. “The others?”

     Spock took a breath and shifted his shoulders slightly, as if testing newly healed muscles. “The others would not understand our bond, nor the extent of the mental torture and conditioning that you experienced. They do not know what transpired except that you returned to me and fell ill, and that I, and Leonard, are caring for you.”

     Jim remembered the anger that had met his previous arrival to Kauhale, and the willingness of Akamu and Nalani to see him leave. “Nalani?”

     “I believe that she, especially, would not understand.”

     “I guess she’ll want her ship back, then.” Jim immediately cringed at his own sarcastic humor, a remnant of who he had been, before. He blinked, and looked down at the floor. “She saved your life; I can’t be anything but grateful.”

     Spock was silent, and Jim felt guilt and sadness creep along their connection. He raised his eyes. “Bones said that the fever had left complications, because it wasn’t me who... .” His voice trailed off.

     Now Spock looked away. “The immediate physical need was provided for, but because our bond was silent, yet unbroken, I could not satisfy the mental requirements. Violent actions kept the more acute symptoms at bay, as you observed.” He bowed his head. “Violence that has lately been directed towards the _Srill-ar_ themselves.”

     “You needed me.” Jim moved forward to stand directly in front of his mate, searching along the bond.

     “I need you.” Spock’s eyes met his with powerful intensity, and Jim inhaled sharply as a wave of hidden desire and desperate longing washed over his mind. “I want you, _ashayam_ , your mind, and your body, if you would trust me again.”

     “I’m yours.” Jim’s memory of their bonding surfaced as he stared into Spock’s eyes. “And always shall be.” He took another step, relaxing his mind to allow Spock’s emotions to flow unimpeded against his own, relaxing his body to project calm, and leaned in to brush his mouth against Spock’s, letting their breath mingle, closing his eyes and concentrating on feeling the warmth of his mate’s body so close to his.

     He raised his hands to Spock’s shoulders, touching lightly, allowing his hands to stroke down to the Vulcan’s hands, where he caressed gently before entwining their fingers together, feeling Spock tremble slightly against him, felt his own breathing quicken. Their lips met more firmly, and a thrill of desire shivered its way along his body, the bond practically glowing in his mind with shared heat. He pressed their mouths together, allowed their tongues to slide together, falling into a deep, sensuous kiss that was echoed a hundred times in his memory.

     He released his hands, bringing them up to stroke through silky hair, feeling his mate’s own hands slip under Jim’s tunic, skimming along his skin, leaving searing trails of heat. Pulling back suddenly, Jim turned his head to eye the narrow medical bed and then looked back at his mate. The Vulcan stared at him, dark eyes slightly unfocused, his breathing now coming in pants, a touch of pale green along his cheekbones. The bond was a roar of need, and Jim realized suddenly that his mate’s skin was burning fever-hot.

     Jim pulled back even further, reaching out to grab at the blankets and Spock released him with a small noise, his hands shaking, desperation and confusion streaming across the bond. Startled, Jim immediately moved back to him again, wrapping his arms around his mate, sending a mute apology across their connection, his heart clenching. “No, no, I’m not going anywhere. I just want to, you know, get everything off the bed... .” He pushed a mental image forward, and felt Spock nod, the shaking now extending throughout the Vulcan's body.

     Quickly, Jim slipped away, tugging his bondmate’s hand to encourage him to stand. With one smooth motion, he stripped the bed of its blankets and sheets and laid them out onto the floor, reaching out to pull the pillows off and toss them after. He muttered to himself as he scanned the small room, and walked over to a wall cabinet next to the door, pulling it open and rummaging until he found what he was looking for.

     The bond was wide open and felt like an inferno, and Spock was still standing in the same place, watching Jim with an almost frightened look on his face. Jim flinched, feeling the fear like a living thing; knowing that it was his own fault, knowing that Spock’s life was, again, hanging in the balance, and knowing that his mate had unequivocally put his trust in Jim, despite all that had happened.

     Slowly, deliberately, Jim walked back towards the Vulcan, pulling his own shirt over his head and unfastening his pants, letting them slide down before kicking them off, along with his underwear, toward a corner of the room. He tossed the small tube of lubricant onto the haphazard pile of blankets on the floor and stopped an arm’s length away, nude, willing his expression and his mind to be open, allowing that same trust to be evident in himself.

     The Vulcan swallowed and made a jerking motion forward, stopping himself before shutting his eyes, clasping his hands together and pressing them to his mouth. Jim moved closer still, reaching out and wrapping his own hands around his mate’s, gently lowering them to his sides before gently pulling at the back of Spock’s head, bringing it down to tuck into Jim’s neck.

     As Jim felt Spock breathe deeply against his skin, the burning need within their connection was tempered by a wash of love, and the Vulcan’s arms came back up to embrace his human, holding him tightly against his body. They stood like that for endless seconds, and then Spock gently lowered them down onto the blankets. Jim helped his mate remove his clothes, and, as their bodies pressed together, their mouths finding each other again, Jim felt something inside of himself cry out in joy.

     Even in the face of the resurgent fever, even after the dark history they both had endured, they came together fully in a succession of gentle touches, endless kisses, and deep melded union. Jim lost himself and all sense of time; lost, for a while, the pressures and anguish that had surrounded him. And as they lay together, finally sated, his mate asleep, the fever heat gone and the bond shining brilliantly between them, Jim felt tears again wet his cheeks, wondering at the vagarities of fate that had allowed him to rest here again.

 

 


	10. A New Path

Chapter Ten: A New Path

 

 

     The return of Captain James Kirk acted as a galvanizing force for the resistance, and led to an influx of volunteers, from obscure corners of forgotten colonies to those newly freed from prison camps and recovered from the clutches of the _Srill-ar_ and their mercenaries. The _Enterprise_ had survived to the last, a bright symbol of hope, and the rise of her captain, his first officer again at his side, renewed that hope and allowed it to shine once more.

     It was two years of hard fighting, of skirmishes on distant planets, battles in the cold darkness of space, a slow whittling away of the mercenary horde. All punctuated by attacks on the remaining _Srill-ar_ motherships. And they fell, one by one, at the hands of the few psi-adept Vulcans who had been taught the discipline of how to destroy the wraiths. Jim led the crucial incursions, always at Spock’s side, their natural rapport still undeniable.

     And finally, when the last of the motherships departed in defeat, leaving chaos behind, a new path beckoned to those who remained: a way of unity that mirrored the old Federation, but also transcended it. Romulans, Klingons, humans, and members of a hundred other species now saw division as weakness, and strove to rise again as a stronger, more cohesive power. They settled on Andoria as the seat of a new interstellar government, and founded an interim Council. The path was set, and now only needed to be followed.

 

 

 

     And now, almost five years after the _Enterprise_ had fallen, Jim stood on the bridge of the _Sheol_ , with Spock, McCoy, and Srel at his side, staring out at the hull of his lost ship.

     “She will be re-built; the Council has decried it. The ships that were involved in the war will be brought together under a single command, and the _Enterprise_ will be the new fleet’s flagship.” Spock’s words were softly spoken, almost reverent.

     McCoy gripped the captain’s shoulder. “You’ll have her back, Jim.”

     “Yes.” Jim’s thoughts were of his lost crew. He stared at his starship; despite the burned marks and the haunting emptiness, she was still strong, still worthy. The starlight washed over her silvery-white hull and bathed her in beauty. She remained a symbol of hope, and a promise that those who were gone would never be forgotten. He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching, but when he regained himself the lights on the bridge were darkened, and only Spock remained at his side.

     Jim reached out to his bondmate, two fingers extended in the _ozh’esta_ , and smiled as Spock reached back, the touch of their hands sending comforting warmth and love sweeping into Jim’s mind. Their bond was fully restored, and had grown ever stronger, and they had come together as _t’hy’la_ in every way, finding healing for the horrors each had suffered. The future was calling, and they would face it, together.

 

 

THE END

 

 

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, and I do not make any money from this.

 

 


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